Ghost of the Thames

by May McGoldrick

  Some five years ago, watermen trying to recover business lost to the growing number of steamboats had erected a floating pier at the bottom of the Limehouse Hole Stairs. That was where their man had his boat.

  “We can postpone this until tomorrow night,” he told her over the wind.

  “No, she is with us. I saw her again,” she told him.

  Edward scanned the stormy river, the dark buildings and boats lining the bank. There was no sign of any other vessel out on the water. He decided that two of his footmen would accompany them on the boat.

  The tide, which had turned an hour before, was running in their favor. Edward seated Sophy where she had a clear view of where they were headed. He sat near her as the riverman picked up the oars and pushed the vessel into the current.

  One of his men held a small lantern. Its dim light danced in the whipping wind and then suddenly sputtered, nearly snuffed out by a splash of watery spray. The footman covered it more carefully with his cloak to keep the flame burning.

  The riverman didn’t need the light. He had spent his life on this stretch of water, and he could navigate it in the blackest of nights.

  As the man rowed, Edward considered how exposed Sophy was out in the night. At this end of London, anyone who intended to bring her harm would be right at home. But he forced back his fears, reminding himself that no one knew where they were. No one had followed them from his house.

  There was a greater chance of them drowning in weather like this, he thought, shaking his head.

  He looked over to check on her again and saw Sophy pull the hood of her cloak tighter about her face. She was shivering.

  “We can still turn around.”

  She shook her head. “I was just thinking of the last time that I was out on this river. It was a night very much like this.”

  He reached for her hand. Her fingers were ice cold. “This is too soon for you to be facing this.”

  “But this is not too soon for Amelia. She has waited long enough.”

  The cold was brutal. Sophy wasn’t the only one shivering. Only the riverman appeared impervious to the weather. And just as Edward thought conditions couldn’t get worse, patches of sleet, black and wet, started pelting them from the sky.

  Edward kept his eyes on the shoreline. The dark buildings lining the riverbanks appeared to be shrunken with the cold, cowering behind the masts of ships tied to their wharves. No life was in evidence on either bank. Windows and doors were shut against the night.

  As they glided quickly along the surface, Edward thought about what he had to do once they reached their destination. He doubted there would be any activity in the dockyard at this ungodly hour of the night. The ship Henry Robinson had sailed in on had gone back out to sea a month ago. And the crew had either shipped back out or dispersed to other pursuits. Edward thought he might, in time, be able to find a few of those men still ashore.

  He glanced over to see Sophy staring ahead at a pair of hulking black barges tied athwart a warehouse dock. She turned and looked into his face.

  “There,” she told him, pointing. “We need to go there.”

  “The Naval Dockyard is around the bend. We are not there, yet.”

  She shook her head, continuing to point. He fixed his gaze on the warehouse and the shadowy buildings around it. They were barely visible in the darkness and the storm. The neighborhood would be a rough one, to be sure.

  “The barges?”

  “She is standing on the dock beyond them. She’s like a beacon, a point of light at the edge of the dock, above the barges.”

  Edward looked again but saw no light. Without hesitating, he told the riverman where to go. Minutes later, the man was guiding his craft to a ladder at one of the dock’s pilings.

  Everything was cloaked in darkness. He’d seen no evidence of life as they approached. The barges had no one living aboard them, as far as he could tell.

  Sophy was anxious to get off the boat as soon as they reached the shore. Putting a hand on her arm, Edward sent his footmen up the ladder first, and when he received a wave from them, he then turned to her.

  “You must be careful going up. You can see how slippery these wooden rungs are. I’ll be behind you if you have trouble.”

  She nodded and scurried up the ladder with the agility of a seasoned jack tar.

  As he reached the top, Edward saw that a sign on the wall of the warehouse had fallen, probably years ago, and sat among some rubbish at the foot of the building. From this distance in the dark, he couldn’t read the name. The dock was cluttered with broken crates and barrels, piles of rope and tackle. The wide, battered doors of the warehouse were shut.

  Sophy was standing near a gangway leading onto the closest barge. One of his footmen stood by her, holding the lantern. She was peering down into the darkness between the pilings and the barge. The wind whipped the hood of the cloak off her head, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her attention was fixed on something below.

  Edward took her arm. “Do you see her?” he whispered.

  She looked up. “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  Sophy nodded toward the gangway. “There.”

  Edward turned. He could see nothing, but went willingly as Sophy drew him to the next piling.

  “This one,” she said, gazing at him. He could see the sadness in her face. She touched the mooring cables that ran out to the barge, and then stared for a long moment into the black water of river slapping against the barge’s hull below them.

  In the light of the lantern, Sophy’s face glistened with rain when she finally looked up at Edward.

  “He is here. This is where Henry Robinson’s body went into the river. He is still trapped here, at the base of this piling.”

  CHAPTER 32

  If there was one time in her life that Sophy wanted to be proven wrong, that night was it. But it was not to be.

  Edward told her the next day that Henry Robinson’s body had been recovered from the precise spot where she had directed them. His belt and clothing had caught on the massive piling, and the tide had securely wedged him in place. It was clear that the corpse had been in the water for months.

  The grim discovery spurred new interest in Amelia’s disappearance. Everyone now knew that the midshipman had been murdered. The police investigators, London’s bon ton, and everyone who read the newspapers immediately became experts on the subject. And while the search for the sixteen year old Seymour girl was renewed, public opinion sided overwhelmingly with the tragic view that Amelia was already dead.

  Sophy’s heart ached for Edward, and the way he had to shoulder the responsibility of everything. Once again, he kept her name away from police and newspapermen. There were rumors reported in the tawdrier rags, though, that an unidentified riverman had referred to a woman who could resurrect the dead.

  In speaking to the police, Edward would provide nothing on that subject, except that his months of searching had finally given him enough clues as to where the midshipman’s body might be found. In due course, Henry’s family needed to be notified and funeral arrangements made. Edward had to see to all of that.

  More important to him, though, Edward was determined to know who operated the warehouse and what would have drawn Henry there. The police decided, curiously, that there was no proof that the midshipman had died there and not somewhere else. Bodies floated for miles in the shifting currents and tides of the Thames before either washing up on the shore or becoming entangled somewhere.

  Amelia did not appear to Sophy in the nights that followed. At first, the ghost’s presence had been directed to saving strangers. Recently, Sophy realized, the focus turned to revealing the truth about her disappearance. She feared that with Henry’s body recovered, the only thing remaining was to be directed to where Amelia’s body lay. She dreaded the thought of having to bear that news.

  Back at Berkeley Square, the servants were not unaware of the rumors. Sophy noticed the look of wonderment directed at her. They knew she was
responsible for the discovery of Henry’s body, but none knew how she was able to do it.

  Sophy’s stay at Edward’s home was cut short, though, for Miss Burdett-Coutts thought it essential that she already be established as a guest in her house before Lord Beauchamp’s ball, where she was to be introduced to the world.

  Edward was away in Portsmouth attending to the official record of Henry Robinson’s demise when the heiress’s carriage arrived to move Sophy. He was expected back the following day.

  “Please tell us that you will be back.” Mrs. Perkins and Mr. Reeves acted as if they were parting with a member of the family.

  “I am planning on it,” she assured both of them.

  “The Captain won’t be pleased to find you gone. His instructions were for you to stay here and that he would arrange for your move to Holly Lodge tomorrow.”

  “A carriage with a driver and grooms to escort a person is considered sufficient for the queen,” she reminded the butler. “I believe Captain Seymour will approve of the arrangement.”

  Talking reassuringly to those two gentle souls was an entirely different matter than feeling reassured. Once she left Berkeley Square, a dozen doubts bombarded her. She questioned everything—from her safety to her uncle’s reaction after meeting her to the possibility that perhaps she was not the Warren heir, after all. As unlikely as that was, considering all that Dickens and Edward had learned, there was a great deal that she could not remember of her past, including the last meeting with her uncle. The possibility that her lack of memory was due to her absence on that boat gnawed at her mind.

  Suddenly, the carriage came to an unexpected stop. She could not see anything from the window, but she listened to the driver and the grooms speaking to someone ahead of them. The tones remained civil, but there was a note of wariness in the driver’s voice. She pushed back the curtain and looked out at the shop-lined street. Two of the grooms had already positioned themselves by the door, guarding her. It was daylight and plenty of pedestrians were about, looking at the exchange with curiosity. Still, she couldn’t imagine any danger befalling her in a situation like this.

  Curious but cautious after all the lectures she’d been given by Edward in the past, she remained inside, allowing her escorts to resolve the conflict outside.

  In a moment, a groom approached, tapped on the carriage window, and waited for Sophy to open it.

  “I am sorry, miss, but there is a carriage blocking us, and the gentleman refuses to have his driver move. He says you know him, and you would want to speak to him.”

  Suspicions flashed through her. Regardless of the handful of parties she’d attended, she was acquainted with very few people. More to the point, how would anyone know she was traveling in Miss Burdett-Coutts carriage?

  She wasn’t given a chance to ask any questions.

  “Here he comes, miss. The gentleman is walking this way.”

  Sophy moved to the edge of the seat to see. Medium height, a lean build, gray cloak and a top hat worn at a conservative angle on his head. She looked into his face; she didn’t think she knew him. But he looked harmless enough. She nodded to the groom to let him approach.

  “Miss Warren,” the man said with enthusiasm, bowing graciously. “I cannot believe my good fortune at having guessed correctly that it was you traveling in Miss Burdett-Coutts carriage.”

  Miss Warren. Sophy moved back in the seat and remained silent. Less than handful of people knew her identity. She knew that Angela would never have revealed her name to anyone in advance of Lord Beauchamp’s ball. There was nothing familiar about this stranger.

  “Pray tell, I hope you haven’t forgotten me,” he continued.

  She said nothing.

  “Peter Hodgson!” he said, bowing again. “I am an official in your shipping company. Your father, I am honored to say, considered me one of his most devoted servants. You and I met on the ship bringing you from Calcutta, after I boarded the vessel with your uncle at Gravesend. I had the privilege of dining with you, your uncle, and the captain of your father’s ship on your first night in England.”

  Peter Hodgson reported to her uncle. That was enough to raise her suspicions. She glanced past him at the two grooms looking on.

  She didn’t remember him, and she wondered how he knew she was alive and well and traveling in this carriage.

  Sophy tried to keep a civil tone in her voice. “My friend, Miss Burdett-Coutts, is expecting me, Mr. Hodgson. Would you be kind enough to have your driver move your carriage?”

  “Certainly. I must apologize for the inconvenience,” he said in a flattering tone. “But I have with me an old servant of yours, and she is unwell.”

  “A servant of mine?”

  “A Bengali woman. She made the crossing from India in your company.”

  “Is she here? In your carriage?”

  “She is.” He stepped back and gestured toward his carriage.

  Sophy opened the door and leaned out cautiously. A groom standing by Hodgson’s carriage opened the door and helped a frail looking, dark-skinned woman out onto the cobbled pavement.

  “Priya,” Sophy whispered in utter shock. She was out of the carriage in an instant and hurrying toward the old woman.

  Priya wobbled visibly, as if she couldn’t keep her balance. She appeared not to be aware of Sophy, but tried to turn and climb back inside the carriage again. The groom assisted her.

  “Priya,” Sophy called louder. She reached the carriage as the old woman slumped back into the seat.

  “Wait,” she ordered, pushing past the groom and climbing onto the carriage step. In spite of all the confusion about her past, Sophy had no doubt who this woman was. And Priya looked very sick. She was leaning heavily to one side.

  “Priya, it is I. Sophy.”

  Priya’s face lifted at the sound of her voice. She squinted, trying to focus. She reached out with trembling fingers, and Sophy climbed into the carriage as the old woman tried to touch her face.

  “Sophy?”

  “Ji, Sophy,” she repeated.

  Immediately, tears sprang into the wrinkled corners of Priya’s eyes, and she sank back heavily. “Korben,” she whispered.

  Sophy understood why the older woman asked forgiveness, for at that moment, Hodgson climbed in and the door shut as the carriage lurched into motion.

  CHAPTER 33

  Standing impatiently in the waiting room, Captain Alfred Lewis stared with simmering anger at the gleaming oak door.

  On the verge of retirement, he did not deserve to be treated with such disrespect. In his long career in Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, he had commanded more than thousand men on scores of ships. It was outrageous to be summoned to Portsmouth from his estate in Sussex to answer questions regarding the death of some inconsequential midshipman. What would he know of the sordid affairs of a boy who had run off with Admiral Seymour's granddaughter, a girl who was so obviously above his station?

  At least, this was what he intended to say to Thomas Byam Martin, Vice Admiral of the Fleet, when that bloody door opened.

  Moments later, anger gave way to trepidation when he was admitted only to find himself facing a full-fledged inquisition led by Captain Edward Seymour and fully supported by the Vice Admiral.

  “We have statements and testimony from officers and crew,” Seymour went on, “as well as from the ship’s surgeon from your half dozen patrols along the West Africa coast and from your voyages in the Far East. There is no question, sir, that you escorted and assisted slave ships, even transporting human cargo to England on Her Majesty’s ships, contrary to naval regulations and the laws of Parliament.”

  Lewis’s immediate reaction to deny the charge was silenced by a glance at the stack of what appeared to be signed documents on the Vice Admiral’s desk. He also realized it was pointless to try to guess who the traitors were. After war with France was concluded, the extra income had been welcomed by many of his officers over the years, and it had kept the rest of his crews silent, as well. Bu
t loyalty went only so far, apparently.

  He considered his position. The accusation of escorting slave ships illegally could be argued. They were British merchants, after all. Many commanders of Royal Navy vessels had done the same. The legality of the transatlantic trade depended on where the cargo was unloaded. After the abolition of the slave trade in 1833, a number of industries that Britain depended on, such as cotton and sugar production, needed to be maintained. Those goods were still hugely profitable and relied on slave labor. As a result, ‘unofficial’ trade continued, with many in the Admiralty turning a blind eye to its officers’ involvement.

  It wasn’t until this last journey from the Far East that he’d been a bit reckless, carrying women who were destined not for distant fields but for the brothels of London. It was an extremely profitable journey for him, but he knew that transporting them aboard his ship was a direct violation.

  “We started asking these questions only this week,” Seymour explained, “questions that have already resulted in an avalanche of accusations and charges of misconduct. And you, Captain, stand at the very bottom of that avalanche. Members of your crews have been coming forward by the dozens to testify, most of them with the hope of saving their own careers and their reputations. “Your officers—”

  “I hope you realize that I am only one cog in the machinery, Captain Seymour,” Lewis broke in, knowing his only chance lay in following in those same footsteps. And he knew Edward Seymour by reputation. He was one of those idealistic fools who thought they could change the world.

  To save himself, Lewis thought, he would need to deflect their attention away from himself. Sometimes the best strategy was not the broadside, but the dagger slipped between the ribs.